Trees block our view of the sunrise. What else did I expect once we left the open skies of Texas for the forested hills of Winston-Salem? No surprises there.
Of the things I miss about Texas, the wonders of the sky matter the most. Serious hot sauce can be bought on-line. My brisket and enchiladas are pretty good. But the sky? The Texas sky cannot be replicated or ordered on Amazon.
This morning I was up early, reading a favored volume of poems by Madeleine L’Engle (1918-2007). Her best-known book A Wrinkle in Time does not fully reflect her literary gifts. Only after becoming curious enough to buy a collection of her complete poetry entitled The Ordering of Love
What can I write that keeps that morning fresh
That hid that young cat in the row of wheat?
Her poems, in toto, as well as couplets like this, cause a person to close the volume softly and gaze off, picturing and absorbing the images.
My sins, I fear, dear Lord, lack glamour.
Such lines make me yearn to be worthy of their power. Good poetry can bequeath this gift. And L’Engle’s poems are very good.
So I read from The Ordering of Love, reveling in the quiet. More than once I closed the book and stared out the side window of our new living room. I didn’t look very hard, though, because I know that the trees out that window really do block the sunrise.
Except this morning, the dark fingers of their bare branches created an intricately fractured tapestry. Slowly, slowly, streaks of electric-pink clouds were turning into an antique mosaic. It was a glorious view, one I could not have enjoyed back in North Central Texas. I stopped reading and watched the drama unfold.
Isn’t that what we humans, do? If we have been taught how beauty nourishes our souls, then we seek it out—at least on our best days. We seek it in a thousand places, particularly once we slow down and remind ourselves to seek it. And we find beauty, both where it easily glows and in the darkest corners.
Perhaps because of my family heritage or my frequent travels to Eastern Europe, I ponder daily the remarkable souls in Nazi concentration camps who left behind writings that describe finding beauty in a blade of dry grass or on the wings of birds high in the sky, all while dissolving into an agonizing death.
That’s the stuff of poetry, isn’t it? Words, images, rhythms that, despite our earthly circumstances, spur our God-given ability to conceive, find, and absorb beauty.
L’Engle’s poems touch these sentiments. They stem from different directions of her life. Consequently, they touch down easily onto the different runways of her reader’s lives. They paint a quiet beauty, tinged with despair and loss. They proclaim the triumph of beauty in the face of doubt, worry, and sadness.
Some poems spring off the pages of the Psalms or re-narrate intense passages from the Old Testament. Others, almost too delicate for reading, examine every imaginable angle of the chronology of Christ’s life, particularly the Annunciation and the Nativity.
And then there are her . . . I never like the word . . . secular poems. Poetry is rarely secular, at least not in spirit. Of course, I mean poems based on worldly themes. Whether they bring smiles or more tears, these poems add gemstones to the mix.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am neither an expert on L’Engle’s writings nor a specialist in poetry. Instead, I try to sit at the feet of people who are, starting with a favorite friend of ours here at Professor Carol, Bob Falls (founder of Poetry Alive! and strong participant in several of our courses).
For that matter, I’m not the best at finding new books to read. For that, I consult my Smithsonian travelers (always a well-read bunch) as well as two of my favorite women friends, literary guru Janice Campbell and my wise editor Jane Elder.
I try, too, to profit from chances to enjoy the bullet-speed literary conversations that erupt when my husband Hank and I get together with Messrs. Kern, Cothran, Perrin, Andrews, and Pudewa at conferences. Trust me, those occasions require a preliminary stop at GNC for a tub of brain-protein powder.
But I digress. (Would Professor Carol ever digress?) My goal was to encourage you to explore the poetry of Madeleine L’Engle. If you can, shake a few fragments of her beauty into your life. Yes, it’s risky telling someone “try this, you’ll love it.” But let me take that risk this morning, especially now that the sun has moved directly above the branches of our North Carolina tall pines for a few moments of unfettered glory.
